


A Mother's Touch

by SylvanWitch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Dark, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Mother Issues, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:32:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1304989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes visits Jim Moriarty in prison while the latter awaits his trial after the triple heist.  Set during "The Reichenbach Fall" and something of an episode tag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mother's Touch

**Author's Note:**

> From a flash fiction LJ prompt: _Sherlock: Mycroft/Moriarty, during The Reichenbach Fall. Mycroft will use any means necessary to get information from Moriarty. Non-con. You pick the kink._ I hope this is what you had in mind, my friend.
> 
> The snakes in my brain wrote this one. Be warned.

He has soft hands for a man.  His fingers are long and smooth, callus-less, the skin unmarred by genetics or accident.

 

He maintains their softness meticulously, with a regimen of lotion and night gloves that might earn him the gentle mockery of a lover, if he had one, or the more pointed gibes of the kinds of men with whom he is forced to associate on a day like this one:  prison guards, police officers, the criminal element. 

 

Men like that might say he had a woman’s hands, might use that to draw conclusions about his sexuality or masculinity.

 

Mycroft Holmes doesn’t care what others think.  He maintains the fine quality of his hands for reasons they’d be horrified to discover.

 

They won’t, naturally.  He’s seen to the cameras, and his influence has cleared the cell block where Moriarty is being kept ahead of his trial.

 

“No marks,” the warden had muttered as he’d personally escorted Mycroft through the last of the gates and handed him the passkey to the prisoner’s solitary cell.

 

“Of course not,” Mycroft had concurred, concealing his contempt.  As if physical marks were the only or worst kind of scar.

 

A brief glance through the narrow window of the cell assures Mycroft that the last guard out of the block had followed his instructions to the letter.

 

Moriarty is bound to a straight-backed wooden chair, the kind found in inexpensive kitchen sets, a wrist tied to each of the chair’s back legs with large handkerchiefs.  He’s blindfolded, a heavier black scarf made of scratchy black wool covers head and eyes, leaving his nose and mouth free.

 

He’s wearing nothing but his pants, prison-issue cheap cotton Y-fronts.  They have a distinct, yellow stain along the front, darker where urine has seeped into the seams.  The unmade bed tells the rest of the story.

 

Good.  Mycroft’s orders had been followed to the letter.  It had been a simple matter to see that the prisoner was dosed with the experimental diuretic Sherlock had been working on.

 

Mycroft opens the door with the key, lets it clang shut behind him.  He takes deliberately shorter strides, and the heels of the women’s shoes he’s wearing make a sharp report, echoing off the narrow cell walls.  He stops behind the prisoner.

 

In his seat, Moriarty goes still.

 

A cloud of lily-of-the-valley surrounds them. Mycroft had had the handkerchiefs and the scarf sprinkled with the sickly sweet perfume, and the plain cotton dress he’s wearing is likewise liberally christened.

 

“Come for a conjugal, love?” Moriarty bluffs, but there’s a tremor down deep in his chest that makes Mycroft smile.

 

The coarse, cheap hose he’s wearing making a schoom-schoom sound as he shifts his weight.

 

For a man with a gifted tongue, the South Dubliner accent is easy enough, and with a minor adjustment in register, Mycroft answers, “Don’t be fresh, Jimmy.  You know mummy doesn’t like it when you’re fresh.”

 

Joining the nauseating perfume is the heavy odor of his breath:  cigarettes—a defunct brand Sherlock had had little trouble recreating—and whiskey.

 

Moriarty makes a swallowing sound, shoulders rigid, the cords of his neck tensing as a muscle in his jaw ticks reflexively.

 

“It won’t work.  My mother’s dead.  I killed her myself.”

 

Of course he had.  Mycroft had predicted as much. Mother issues:  obvious and boring.

 

In answer, he pinches Moriarty’s earlobe and twists viciously, wringing a startled sound out of the man before he laughs, hyena-like, an edge of hysteria driving it up an octave and then two.

 

“You’ve been a filthy boy, I see,” Mycroft continues, releasing Moriarty’s ear to run his soft, smooth fingers down Moriarty’s chest. 

 

The prisoner tries to shrink back against the chair, but that brings him up against Mycroft’s soft “bosom,” and he judders forward once more, trapped between one sensation and the other.

 

“You’re not my mother!” he shouts as Mycroft’s hands reach the damp waistband of the pants.

 

Mycroft makes a noise of disgust, tsking vigorously as he yanks the elastic down, pulling a cry from Moriarty when the elastic catches on his pubic hair and yanks that away as well.

 

“You know what happens when you’re filthy, Jimmy,” Mycroft says, pressing close to him to snag the elastic behind the prisoner’s balls.

 

Moriarty swallows a sound, begins to chant, “No, no, no, this isn’t real, it’s not real,” under his breath, and Mycroft lets him go, takes a half-step back.

 

In the reprieve, Moriarty slumps in the chair, head moving from side to side as if by the motion he could dislodge the blindfold and let himself see where his tormentor has gone.

 

Mycroft answers the question by flicking open a cap with a loud click.  He lets the cold hand lotion ooze from the bottle, squeezing until it farts out an air bubble and, with it, a stronger odor of lilies of the valley.

 

In his bonds, Moriarty whimpers.

 

“No, no, no.  Please, mummy, don’t.  I’ll be good!  I won’t do it again!”

 

But Mycroft has no more mercy than Moriarty’s mother had had, and he presses close again, leaning over the trembling man to wrap his lotion-soaked hand around him and tug.

 

Into his ear, he pours vile words.  “You’re the worst sort of pervert, aren’t you, Jimmy, always abusing yourself when you think I can’t see you, can’t hear you, tugging on it until it’s red and raw.  Well, mummy’s got a cure for that.  Don’t you like it, Jimmy?  Don’t you like when Mummy touches you in the bad place?  You do like it, you sick, worthless thing.  Look at how your thing jumps in Mummy’s hand.  You’re a bad, worthless, awful boy, Jimmy Moriarty, and you’ll never be anything else.”

 

With a nasty final twist, Mycroft tears an orgasm out of Moriarty, who’s crying now, snot and mucous thick in his voice.

 

“No, Mummy, please.  I’ll be good.  I’ll be good, please don’t.  D-d-don’t!” he cries. 

 

“Filthy boy!” Mycroft says, wiping his hand on Moriarty’s lips, thrusting his dirty fingers into Moriarty’s mouth until the man gags on the lotion and his own spend.  “Clean up your mess!”

 

He comes around to the front then to take in the product of his labors.

 

What’s left of Moriarty sags in the chair, snot, spit, and come dribbling from his mouth onto his bare chest, cock and balls angry red for their treatment and the irritation of the elastic waistband still binding the latter.

 

“I’m watching you, love, remember that.” Mycroft croons.  “Any time you’re a filthy boy, I’ll be there to punish you.  You have to learn your lesson, Jimmy.  There’s mummy’s little angel,” he finishes, leaning forward to plant a kiss on the top of Moriarty’s bent head.

 

The man jerks beneath him, mewling, and Mycroft turns his back to go.

 

Moriarty’s sobs echo down the long corridor as Mycroft makes his way back to the gate, passing out into the anteroom where he can change his clothes and escape at last the cloying scent of the wretched perfume. 

 

Allowing himself a small, satisfied smile, he retrieves his phone from the plastic bin where he’d put it and types out a rapid message while he dresses.

 

I’ll be mother. –M

 

A moment later, a sound alerts him to the reply.

 

Thanks, mummy. –SH


End file.
